


Finding New Habits With You

by catskeleton



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cabin Fic, Idiots in Love, Lots of Tea, M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period, a touch of feral season 2 jon, did I mention soft jon and martin?, grumpy jon sims, jon's paranoia wont give him a break, jonmartin, look i just wanted to write soft things about the gays and their love for tea, lots of comfort for eachother, martin is anxious and I feel that on a personal level, martin misses his friends, not beta read we die like archival assistants, oh and jon has too many addictions to cope with, soft martin and jon, spoilers for up to season 5, the boys just need some love and affection, we love a supportive couple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24064009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catskeleton/pseuds/catskeleton
Summary: Martin grumbled to himself as he dug through the cupboards. He was grasping at the faint memory that he had seen some tea stashed at the back of this cupboard when Jon and himself had first arrived here, and they had taken stock of what Daisy had left in the house. Sure enough, after a couple minutes of blindly grabbing at various boxes and tins, Martin found the tea. He pulled it from the cupboard, a smile of delight on his face. The smile quickly swung to a frown as he read the label.Martin finds some hidden tea and tries to comfort a grumpy, withdrawal Jon with it.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 122





	1. One True Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfiction I have written since my days in the Black Butler Fandom when I was 14. I was sad and just wanted some self indulgent Jon/Martin fluff to cheer me up. So of course I went for the classic Scotland honeymoon fluff.  
> Not much happens, but Martin finds some tea to get him through the cold winter and tries to cheer up his grumpy archivist- enjoy! Slight CW for talk about addiction withdrawal (caffeine and nicotine) but it's v mild and nothing graphic. 
> 
> I'm going to be writing some more chapters to this story, all featuring different comforts and new habits for the pair, so be sure to check back in soon for more sweet tales on our favourite boys.

The safe house had little to offer in terms of comfort. It was barren of most common furniture, save for the one leather sofa and coffee table Daisy had kindly installed and the singular bed in the back room of the house. The decoration barely made up for the furniture either.

Martin hadn’t been surprised when Jon had complemented Daisy’s minimalist interior tastes. Their time at the institute together had taught Martin many important factors about Jon and the life he led. The minimalism was a quick learn after Jon had finished setting up his office after he took over from Gertrude. Despite the mess of the overfilled filling cabinets and shelves of disorganised statements that took over one wall of his office, Jon had completely stripped the rest of the room of all furnishings, decorations, and sentimentality. Most days, all that Jon had on his desk was his laptop, the tape recorder, and whatever statement he had chosen for that day’s meal. Martin had taken up the habit of choosing the boldest and gaudiest mug the break room had to offer just for the excuse to sneak some form of life into the head archivist’s office in the disguise of a cup of tea.

Martin wished he could do the same here as he stared into the kitchen cupboards. Plain porcelain mugs filled the bottom shelf. Martin clasped his hands around a pair with a sigh. He set them on the counter and reached for the kettle, filling it at the tap before replacing it back on it’s stand and flicking it onto boil whilst he rummaged hopefully in the cupboards for tea bags.

Tea had begun to run low. Martin cursed the safe house’s lack of comfort again. First the furniture, now his tea. Supplies hadn’t been too bad during their first couple of months at the house. The little shop in the village had done a fine job at stocking Martin and Jon with just about anything they could set their hearts on. The lady who owned it had even offered to specially order in anything she didn’t have for them. Jon had requested a specific brand of cigarettes that he had told Martin later, “Tasted better than all the others”. Martin wasn’t sure about it, but Jon had seemed generally happy for the time in a while when the cigarettes appeared on their next visit to the shop. However, winter had settled in Scotland, thick snow coating every field until all the eye could see was white for miles in every direction, and deliveries had started to run scarcer and scarcer until even the basics had disappeared from the shop’s shelves.

After the first month of snow, Jon had made the effort to trek to the next village over, which Martin had estimated was at least 20 miles away based on the old map he had found in one of the bedside draws. The Archivist had returned several hours later with snow burned cheeks, drenched in melting snowflakes, and embarrassingly empty handed. Martin never did learn if the next village over was out of essentials too, or if Jon had simply gotten lost. Martin had his bets on one of the two options, but he felt it wrong to ruin what little self-pride Jon seemed to still have by asking for clarification.

Of course, Jon had heroically offered to reattempt his mission the following week when the snow had begun to ease, but Martin knew it was a hopeless feat. So instead, the couple had first worked their way through the coffee stash Jon had hidden away beneath the sink, then Martin’s selection of specialty teas that he had brought with him from the institute, and finally the plain English breakfast from the little village shop. But despite Martin’s best efforts to ration both his and Jon’s caffeine addictions, and save teabags for multiple uses, the last of the tea had left them a couple of days prior.

“Shouldn’t have let Jon pressure me into using my posh teas over Christmas,” Martin grumbled to himself as he dug through the cupboards. He was grasping at the faint memory that he had seen some tea stashed at the back of this cupboard when Jon and himself had first arrived here, and they had taken stock of what Daisy had left in the house. Sure enough, after a couple minutes of blindly grabbing at various boxes and tins, Martin found the tea. He pulled it from the cupboard, a smile of delight on his face. The smile quickly swung to a frown as he read the label.

“I never had Daisy pinned as a peppermint tea drinker,” Martin spoke aloud. He sighed and set the box next to the mugs. He had never been much of a herbal tea fan, always finding them too watery and bitter to truly enjoy. “Well, I guess it’s better than nothing.”

As he dropped the teabags into the mugs, the front door of the house swung open. Martin didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Jon was the only one who left the house most days. The cold played harsh games on Martin’s mind, it reminded him too much of the Lonely. He much preferred the inside where he could sit next to the fire and pine over his unwritten poetry. It was especially ideal when Jon was pressed up beside him trying to work through a crossword puzzle without too much help from his supernatural encyclopedia of knowledge.

Martin delighted in moments like those. They were polar opposite of the safe house, full of comfort and oh so inviting. Martin reveled in the weight of Jon’s body on his, their shared warmth, and the muffled huffs from Jon when he gave into the Eye’s contribution to his crossword.

Jon shivered as he stepped into the house, adjusting to the sudden change in temperature. The last tendrils of smoke snaked away from his nostrils, both thin and slow as Jon savoured their lingering touches. Much like his caffeine, Jon had started rationing his cigarettes, and the withdrawal from both, and the added bonus of his starvation from any new statements, had sullied his mood significantly. Cool air and a small whirlwind of snow followed him as he shrugged off his coat and walked into the kitchen.

“Feeling any better?” Martin asked, as Jon shuffled in behind him, hugging him from behind. The Archivist groaned and buried his face in the back of Martin’s jumper and tightened his grip at his partner’s waist.

“Perhaps a little bit,” Jon said at last, his head popping up onto Martin’s shoulder. He groaned again and pulled an exaggerated face of disdain. “I’m down to my last two cigarettes.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Martin said, trying to make his voice as sympathetic as he could. In truth he had never been a big fan of smoking, and he couldn’t deny the slight pleasure he took in the thought of this shortage potentially leading to Jon’s quitting of the habit.

“And we don’t even have tea to make up for it,” Jon said, nuzzling his face into Martin’s neck. Martin shivered at the touch. Jon’s skin was ice cold, and Martin could feel the hard outlines of the many scars that speckled Jon’s cheek. The frames of his glasses might as well have been plated with ice. They burnt cold as they pressed into Martin’s skin. He was about to complain when Jon’s face shifted again, and warm lips kissed at his skin instead.

Jon peppered soft kisses along Martin’s exposed neckline and up onto the edge of his jaw, scratching his lips against the slight stubble that had begun to grow in along Martin’s jawline and chin.

Martin sighed into the affection, savouring each touch. Another comfort he reveled in. Just as he was considering turning in Jon’s embrace, and stealing a kiss on his lips, the kettle beeped. It vibrated on it’s stand, boiling water bubbling inside and steam billowing out of the spout.

“Oh fun, more hot water with a side of hot water,” Jon said, releasing his grip and moving to lean against the kitchen counter.

“Mmm,” Martin replied, wondering how long he could save his surprise tea discovery. “Shame the honey ran out last week too.”

“Please don’t remind me,” Jon said, adjusting his glasses where his heavily scrunched eyebrows had nudged them down the bridge of his nose. Martin was silent as he poured water into each mug, avoiding the steam rising from each so not to mist up his own glasses.

“Well hot water can still warm you up,” Martin said with a smile as he turned, mugs in hand. He handed one to Jon, who took it with a quiet thank you and cradled it between his frozen palms.

Despite Jon’s impressive need for organisation and order, Martin had learned that Jon was not very observant. A quality that had only been heightened by his withdrawals. His constant wants for caffeine, nicotine, and statements occupied his mind to the extent that he had failed to notice the strong scent of peppermint emanating from his mug. Martin watched the Archivist as he lifted the cup to his lips and took a sip. His distant attention didn’t break until a few moments later when he registered the taste.

Jon looked down into his mug, his eyes widening with surprise and then scrunching into confusion. “You said we had used the last of the tea!” Jon said accusingly, jabbing his mug at Martin who only giggled in response.

“I found it at the back of the cupboard, must be left over from the last time Daisy lived here,” Martin said, taking a sip of his own tea. It was just as he remembered, still watery and bitter, but it was sweeter than just the hot water alone, so he pushed the inner complaints down.

“And you felt it suitable to withhold this discovery from me for how long? I bet you’ve been drinking this in secret without me.” Jon looked betrayed. Martin stifled a laugh at the shorter man’s anger. He dramatically threw the back of his hand against his forehead in mock-hurt.

“Your accusations wound me, Jonathan.”

“I let you drink my coffee, and this is the thanks I get,” Jon grumbled, crossing his arms and sipping at his tea with a pout.

“Mm, yes like drinking my expensive teas wasn’t thanks enough,” Martin fired back. He furrowed his eyebrows when Jon didn’t respond, the betrayed expression still deeply set on his face. “If it makes you feel any better, Jon, I only found the tea whilst you were outside. Well, actually I found it on our first day here, but I must have forgotten about it.”  
Martin bumped his hip against Jon’s and smiled as the Archivist glanced up at him, a softer look in his eye.

“I shouldn’t have accused you so brashly, I’m sorry Martin,” Jon said, a gentleness in his voice that Martin knew was reserved exclusively for him. He melted at the sound.

“Thank you,” Martin said, trying to soften the giddiness inside him. “Besides, I’d never have secret tea parties without you.”

“No?” Jon cocked an eyebrow.

“Tea tastes better when you’re having it with loved ones,” Martin replied fondly. A peachy blush pressed on Martin’s cheeks, making it Jon’s turn to melt from affection for the man.

Jon returned Martin’s earlier sentiment of bumping their hips together and laced his free hand through Martin’s. “Have any new poetry ideas?” Jon asked as Martin impulsively shuffled closer from Jon’s touch.

“Maybe some, why?” Martin looked across at Jon, eyeing the playful smile on the Archivist’s lips.

“Well I think I just figured out one of the crossword clues and the fire is burning all to itself, so I was thinking-“

Martin cut Jon off before he could finish his sentence by pressing a kiss firmly to his lips. The couple let the kiss linger for a few blissful moments, hands drawing up to cup each other’s cheeks before they broke apart and walked to the living area, hand in hand, shoulders pressed warmly together.

Martin settled on the worn leather sofa first, Jon quickly climbing on after him. The archivist settled himself between Martin’s legs, his back supported against the man’s belly. He kicked off his shoes, letting them clatter to the floor in a damp heap, and reached for the tattered book of crossword puzzles he had left on the coffee table.

Behind him, he could feel Martin shift as he reached for his own notebook and pen. He could feel the faint reverberations of Martin tapping the pen to his chin as he collected his thoughts. Jon sighed into the moment, lulling sleepily as Martin began to hum a cheerful tune to the notes he made in his book. Jon lent his head back into Martin’s stomach, feeling the roughness of the man’s jumper against the back of his neck.

Soon, a large hand smoothed into Jon’s hair. Martin laced his fingers through the longer strands of Jon’s hair, letting the silver streams flow against the webs of his hand as he repeated the motion of stroking through each section of hair. He thanked the day Jon had found a hairbrush in one of the bathroom draws. It had left his hair silky smooth, and tangle free enough for Martin to effortlessly swim his hand through Jon’s hair.

Jon lent into the touch, his own hand jotting down the letters along the middle row of the puzzle. He paused to look at the next clue and made a frustrated huff after several seconds.

“Wretched eye answered the clue again.”


	2. Room for Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All it had taken was one night of insomnia and nightmares for Jon and Martin to decide to share the bed.  
> ***  
> Jon had planned on staying in bed all day, but Martin being upset wasn't his planned cause for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another installment of our favourite gays in their safe house. I hadn't planned for this chapter to be so long, but once a certain Tim Stoker got involved I just had to commit.  
> Unlike the first chapter, this one is a little (a lot) more angsty with Martin somewhat having a breakdown and Jon trying his best to comfort him. However, much like the first, I chose one thing to ramble on about and this time chose jumpers, because we all know Mr K Blackwood loves a jumper and most definitely brought several with him to Scotland.  
> I listened to a few Mechanisms albums on repeat whilst writing this so a round of applause to you if you find the little easter egg I included. (If you haven's listened to Jonny Sims's band of space pirates yet, what are you even doing?)

All it had taken was one night of insomnia and nightmares for Jon and Martin to decide to share the bed. Jon wouldn’t have classed the bed as single, but it wasn’t quite big enough to count as a double either. The first few nights had been uncomfortable. Jon awkwardly squeezed in next to Martin, pressing his spindly limbs into any free space he could find. Most mornings, Jon had awoken to cramps riddled throughout his body. It had led to the couple dropping into a routine of Jon taking a walk to ease his joints and stretch out his muscles, whilst Martin would fix their breakfast from whatever the cupboard had to offer. Today however, despite the shooting pains in his knees, Jon didn’t have any immanent plans to get up and leave the warm embrace of his partner.

Sometime during the night, most likely somewhere between Jon’s restless turning and Martin’s nightmare fueled whimpering, Jon had shifted so his body was lain on top of Martin. Their bellies and chests pressed together, and where their night shirts had ridden up, skin caressed skin.

Martin’s arms were around Jon, loosely keeping him in place. One hand had snaked underneath Jon’s shirt; cool fingers splayed along the base of his spine. Jon kept as still as he could, not wanting to wake Martin and risk losing the intimate touch.

Jon had never been overly fond of being touched, though he hadn’t ever been able to exactly pinpoint why that was the case. It was often easier to blame his disliking towards several different textures. Skin was a notably strange sensation for Jon. The thought of someone else’s skin coming into contact with his own put an unpleasant taste in his mouth. Of course, his several encounters with the Flesh and their many, many corresponding statements hadn’t helped this particular disliking. Despite that though, the Archivist had found he was rather fond of touch when Martin was the source. Martin's touch was safe, comforting, utterly full of love and nothing even remotely sinister.

Jon lifted his head and rested his chin on Martin’s chest. The slow rise and fall of Martin’s ribs rocked Jon’s position gently, lulling him into a drawn-out yawn. He wasn’t sure what time it was exactly, but sunlight spilled through the thin curtains of the bedroom and illuminated Martin’s still sleeping face. A single golden sunbeam streaked across his cheek and Jon couldn’t stop himself from reaching his hand out to filter it with his fingertips. He grazed the pads of his fingers across Martin’s cheekbone and down onto his jaw line, scratching through his white flecked stubble, and coming to rest just below the sleeping man’s plump lower lip.

Nothing in the world could possibly be more beautiful, Jon thought as he edged his index closer to Martin’s lips. The skin of Martin’s lips had never been anything other than silken smooth. As his finger glided over them, the Archivist came to dislike his entrapment under Martin’s arms. He longed to shuffle closer to his partner’s face and kiss his lips close to bruising- but Martin looked so beautiful asleep.

As if on demand, Martin hummed sleepily, his nose scrunching up as he woke. The seconds seemed to stretch out of existence as Jon watched the last dregs of unconsciousness leaving Martin. Jon drew his arms away and folded them beneath his chin, lifting his head a notch higher, just enough to watch Martin’s eyes as they open. The curtained light picked out the little specks of blue in his grey eyes that Jon found positively dreamy. Another item for his mental list of why Martin was, without any doubt, the most beautiful person.

“Good morning, handsome,” Martin said with a lazy smile. His hands mindlessly drew away from around Jon’s thin body and up to his face where they rubbed at his tired eyes.

“Morning,” Jon replied, returning the smile.

“I hope me waking hasn’t disrupted your morning ritual of watching me sleep,” Martin said, startling Jon.

“How did you know?” Jon asked sheepishly, pulling at his grey streaked hair. He could feel the starts of a blush edging across his cheeks and he was desperate to hide it from Martin, who Jon had no doubt would tease him mercilessly for it.

“Your face is a big red confession,” Martin said, lazily waving an accusing finger in front of Jon’s face. He giggled softly as Jon further tried to hide his face. Martin snaked his hand between the Archivist’s shield of hair and pinched his cheek. “You have those big doe eyes you only have when you think I’m not looking.”

“Mm” Jon hummed, loosening his hair defence and leaning into Martin’s hand which had relaxed to cup at his cheek. “Guilty as charged, I suppose. But in answer to your question, no, you haven’t disrupted me.”

“That’s good to hear, because now it’s time for my own morning ritual,” Martin mused, a playful smile threatening at his lips.

“And what does that entail?”

“It’s quite simple really,” Martin began to explain as he pulled himself into a sitting position, propping his back against the headboard of the bed. “All I have to do is make sure my touch deprived Archivist gets all the hugs and kisses he deserves.”

Before Jon could respond, Martin smothered him in his arms and the soft fabric of night shirt, hugging him firmly against his chest. The larger man pressed his face into the tangle of the other’s hair, inhaling the minty scent of his shampoo. He held them there for a few silent moments, Martin taking every second to thank his saints that for once, despite how unlikely it had always seemed, Jon was safe. They were both safe. They were together.

He slowly released Jon, letting him slip into a curled sitting position on his lap.

“Are you sure you aren’t the touch deprived one?” Jon asked. He looked up at Martin, one eyebrow arched with amusement.

“Maybe just a touch,” Martin chuckled, peppering kisses along Jon’s forehead before gathering the Archivist’s hands in his own and continuing his string of kisses along his knuckles.

“Luckily for us, this bed has room for two needy archival staff,” Martin continued. He flashed Jon a wicked smile.

“I don’t think that title is entirely accurate anymore, Martin,” Jon said, a frown pulling at the corner of his mouth, drawing hair-width wrinkles across his brow and down the sides of his nose.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” Jon said slowly. “No, I suppose it’s not.” A quietness drew out between the pair as they both took a moment to mull over the impossible months they had just experienced. 

Martin stretched, pulling his legs out from under Jon. He swung them over the edge of the bed with a yawn and scratched the back of his head. Jon noted the tufts of hair now sticking out over the tops of Martin’s ears and at the base of his neck. It wasn’t the first time Jon had had the pleasure to see them. He had learned that Martin’s hair grew unnaturally quickly, and within a week of being cut, Martin’s typically short hair would be back and beautifully fluffy. Jon loved Martin’s hair. It had its own personality, never quite behaving how Martin wanted it to. In the streaked light of the bedroom, his brown hair looked almost golden, or maybe even ginger and red if Jon turned his head in one direction. Beautiful.

“Any requests for breakfast?” Martin chirped, his voice reclaiming its soft, happy tone.

“Does a longer lie in count?” 

“It does not, because unlike you and your taste for spooky tales,” Martin poked between Jon’s eyes. “I still need to eat- and I think rice pudding would go down pretty well right about now. I think there might even be some jam left in the fridge that we can put on it.”

Jon stole the rest of the duvet and blankets as Martin stood. A chill had crept around him without his partner’s warmth. He desperately wanted Martin back in his arms. Jon reached out a hand to grab at Martin’s wrist, trying to pull him back into bed. Martin chuckled and turned to plant a firm kiss on Jon’s lips.

“So needy,” Martin murmured. He stroked a hand through Jon’s hair, untangling several knots as he did.

“Just making up for all the missed time we had whilst you were working for Lukas,” Jon said.

“That’s fair,” Martin agreed. He inhaled deeply before pulling away again. He reached for his trousers that had been discarded on the floor the night before and shoved his legs into them. When things had been normal, if being kept in the archives could even constitute as normal, Martin had hated wearing the same clothes twice. He loved the feeling of clean laundry against his skin, and the soft floral scent of the cheap detergent he bought from the Tesco opposite his flat. 

He had also adopted the habit in hopes that his constant change in outfits would catch Jon’s eye and grant him the attention Martin had achingly craved for during the early days of his crush. Here in the safe house though, Jon’s attention wasn’t a rare gift and neither of them had the energy or patience to wash their clothes.

Daisy had failed to supply the house with a washing machine, which had meant any cleaning would have to be carried out by hand in either the kitchen sink or the bathtub. After a month of living in the same sets of clothes on cycle, Martin had suggested a wash day to refresh the minimal items of clothing they had brought with them, but Jon hadn’t seemed thrilled by the idea and avoided it further by pointing out they had nowhere or means to dry anything. The outside temperatures would have frozen everything before they could have even gotten it onto a washing line, and inside the only source of heat was the fire which was already on the smaller and barer side.

So, Martin had given in to the filth of their new living habits and taken to wearing the same pair of faded jeans day in and day out. He did like to change between his jumpers though. Once his trousers were zipped and buttoned, and he had grabbed his glasses from the nightstand, Martin stalked over to the stout wicker chair that occupied one corner of the room and eyed his selection. 

Much like the case with the washing machine, the safe house also lacked wardrobes. Jon and Martin had previously debated whether Daisy had just forgotten, or if her use of this particular house never sufficed the need of them. Martin veered on the side of forgetfulness. He found it better for his nerves to be ignorant about Daisy’s past and her involvement with the hunt. Even just considering the likelihood that she had ended the life of some poor monster within the walls of his and Jon’s sanctuary, set Martin’s teeth on edge. Jon didn’t seem at all bothered by the prospect.

Martin brushed the thoughts aside and turned back to his jumpers that he had folded neatly on the chair. Yesterday, he had boldly worn a thin cotton jumper adorned across the front with a large drawing of Snoopy. It had been his mother’s at some point and even if it wasn’t particularly effective against the chill of the safe house, Martin still loved wearing it, nonetheless. He grazed his fingertips along its sleeve fondly and flicked through the rest. He paused at a thickly knitted blue jumper with white stripes down the arm and a delicate star design embroidered across the chest. It had been a present from Tim if he recalled correctly, gifted to him during his first Christmas at the archives when the archive assistants and several library and artifact storage staff, had taken part in a secret Santa.

Tim had never openly admitted he had been Martin’s Santa, but the look on the man’s face when Martin had opened his present and seen the jumper was a good indicator. Tim had been happy back then, and he had struggled to hide when he was overly pleased with himself. The corners of his mouth would twitch into a sly smile and creases pulled at the edges of his eyes. Martin smiled privately, running his fingertips along the embroidered stars. He missed Tim. 

“Are you alright?” Jon appeared beside him, concern on his face. He reached his hands up and ran his thumbs beneath Martin’s eyes. Jon’s hands came away damp. “Martin, please tell me what’s wrong.”

“I- It-It’s fine, I’m fine, Jon,” Martin stammered out. He knew that wasn’t going to convince Jon, and he was proved right when the Archivist leant in and wrapped his arms protectively around him.

“You’re crying and mist started forming around your feet, that only happens when the Lonely-” Jon trailed off. He tilted his face, searching Martin’s face for an answer. Jon could feel the press of the beholding behind his eyes. He knew he could find out what was bothering Martin if he put some power behind his questions, but it didn’t feel right to him to force such answers. 

“I was thinking about Tim,” Martin said softly, sniffling as tears threatened at the corners of his eyes again. He pushed his glasses up and away from his face, settling them on the top of his head. Martin hated getting tear stains on his glasses.

Jon nodded in understanding. He cupped Martin’s face between his hands and with the added help of his shifting onto the tips of his toes, Jon leant his face up to press their foreheads together.

“I know there’s nothing I can say to make this better, but if it’s any consolation, I miss him too.”

“Yeah,” Martin whispered, his voice cracking with sorrow. He sucked in a breath trying his hardest to hold in his pain, but he knew it was futile. Within seconds his face broke into sobs, his face dropping into Jon’s shoulder and wetting the fabric of Jon’s shirt.

The Archivist cradled Martin in his arms, uttering words of comfort into Martin’s tufty hair. He smoothed his hand up and down the larger man’s back in hope the movement would sweep the hurt from his body. Jon could feel the shake of Martin’s chest as his breathing hitched between sobs. Whimpers muffled into the noises, breaking Jon’s heart into a million shreds. He hated seeing, hearing, feeling Martin hurt.

“It’s okay, Martin, I’m here,” Jon repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. He rocked them both slowly, hoping the slight sway would settle Martin. “I’m never going anywhere.”

Martin scrunched his fists into the back of Jon’s shirt; a silent response that Jon knew Martin understood the sentiment.

“I’m so sorry, Martin,” Jon said which only broke Martin further.

“Okay, okay, my love, let’s get you back to bed,” Jon said, his voice firm but still smooth with love. He began to guide Martin backwards until the backs of his legs pressed up against the bed. Martin sat, drawing his legs up against his chest and pressing his face into his knees, willing with all his strength for his tears to stop. Jon was silent, but Martin could still feel his worried eyes on him.

“I’m sorry, Jon” Martin mumbled between heavy breaths as he tried to regain control of his breathing. His tears had mostly stopped, save for a couple of stray droplets that rolled down his cheeks.

“There’s nothing to apologise for.” Jon pressed a kiss to both of Martin’s cheeks, just below each eye. He could taste the saltiness of the man’s tears on his lips. He lifted Martin’s glasses from their crooked place on his head and placed them safely on the nightstand.

“Stay put one moment, I’ll be just a second,” Jon said, stepping away from the bed. Before he could get too far, Martin caught the back of his shirt.

“Jon, wait-”

“Shh, I’ll be right back,” Jon cooed, turning back to smooth his hand through his Martin’s hair. He lent down to kiss Martin’s lips, a promise of a swift return, letting it linger long enough to feel Martin’s muscles relax. As Jon pulled away, Martin sniffled and nodded. Jon turned to leave the room, Martin holding onto his hand as long as he could before the distance broke them apart.

Martin shifted where he sat. His clothes had begun to feel incredibly heavy against his skin. He quickly undid his trousers and kicked them off his legs, his shirt soon joining the pair in a heap on the floor. He shivered in just his boxers, the frigid safe house air nipping at his freckled skin. Martin reached behind him, tugging a blanket from Jon’s side of the bed free. He wrapped around his shoulders, letting Jon’s scent surround him. He smelt like old books and homely dust, with the underlying note of cigarette smoke. Martin inhaled it all.

Through the open bedroom door, Martin could hear Jon clattering about in kitchen. Several muffled bangs told Martin that Jon was searching through the cabinets. He heard the clink of a bowl being set on the counter and the familiar click of the kettle turning on. If he listened hard enough, Martin could just about make out the murmur of Jon singing to himself. He couldn’t quite make out all the lyrics, but he was sure he heard something about a train and the mention of the Norse god Loki. Martin smiled to himself. Jon always had had obscure music tastes.

The noise in the kitchen lessened and footsteps approached the bedroom. Jon yawned as he entered. Martin looked up. The sight was blurry without the aid of his glasses and the residual smear of tears across his vision , but Martin could just about make out the shape of a bowl in one of Jon’s hands, a slightly bent metal spoon sticking out the top of it, and a mug of something hot and steaming in his other.

“I know I’m not the most observant man, but I’d never forget that you need to eat. And I know you might not feel like it right now, but I thought some comfort could help,” Jon said once he reached the bedside. He set the mug down on the bed side table, watching Martin out of the corner of his eye.

“It’s not tea I’m afraid. I know you aren’t a fan of the peppermint we currently have, so instead I thought we could try some hot squash. I wasn’t sure which you’d prefer, so I hope blackcurrant is okay.”

Jon rambled on slightly longer about squash and his opinion that orange probably didn’t lend itself to being drunk at any temperature except cold. Martin let him talk, he liked just listening to the Archivist’s slightly raspy voice. It was grounding. 

“Thank you, Jon,” Martin said quietly, interrupting Jon mid-sentence. Jon paused and then smiled. 

“It’s the least I could do.” He realised he was still holding onto the bowl and quickly set it beside the mug of squash. Martin watched and finally got a glimpse of its contents. Rice pudding. Carefully spooned out in the way food always was when Jon was dishing up, a neat scoop of strawberry jam placed on top of it.

Jon fiddled with the position of the food, turning the mug handle so it would be easier to pick up from the bed. If Martin didn’t feel like eating or drinking now, Jon knew he would later, and he had no plans for either of them moving from the bed for the rest of the day.

“Is there room for two?” Jon asked softly.

Martin responded with a hum and shuffled across the bed and lowered himself into the mattress. Jon climbed in next to him, drawing the covers over them both. The feather stuffed sheets still held onto the warmth of their sleep and Jon hoped the cosiness would help sooth Martin’s nerves. However, just to be safe, Jon wrapped his arms around Martin, and pressed their bodies as close as they could. Martin let him, of course, his head finding its usual spot against Jon’s slight chest, his chin resting in the crevice of the Archivist’s missing ribs.

“He bought me that jumper.” Martin broke the silence without lifting his head to look at Jon, his gaze fixed on the blue embroidered jumper still folded neatly on the chair.

“I’m sorry?”

“Tim, he bought me that jumper, the blue one with the little stars.” Jon followed his gaze to the jumper in question.

“Yes, I remember when you first got it. You used to wear it quite a lot back then, before- well before it all went wrong,” Jon recalled. He pictured a younger Martin in his head. Worm-scar free and smiling at his desk, a cup of tea in one hand and a statement in the other.

“It made Tim happy.” Martin reached his hand out, searching for Jon’s. When he found it, he laced their fingers together, his thumb worrying the one ring Jon wore on his left index finger. A somewhat thick band of turquoise glass, the faint markings of words etched into the surface.

“Did I ever tell you the reason why he bought it for you? I overheard him and Sasha talking about it after we had all returned in the new year.”

Martin shook his head. He let Jon ramble again, spinning the tale of Tim finding the jumper in a charity shop and purchasing it for the yet to be organised secret Santa because he thought it fit the category of an ugly Christmas sweater perfectly. However, after he had pulled Martin’s name from the hat and considering his vintage aesthetic, Tim had realised his unintentionally perfect gift.

Martin couldn’t help but smile at the story. The thought of Tim and the happy times they had shared swept the last few cobwebs of sadness away and Martin had drifted into a dreamless sleep. After that, Martin swapped out his night shirt for Tim’s jumper and his nightmares became just a touch more bearable as his dreamscapes became more and more peppered with little embroidered stars.


	3. Three Day Record

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now without a use, Jon’s spider web lighter had been discarded beside the empty packet of cigarettes. Jon had tossed them both onto the kitchen table shortly after having smoked the last cigarette, slumping into one of the chairs at the table in a fit of despair. Martin wasn’t sure if Jon had moved for the rest of the day. He had tried to reason with him at first. Provide him what best comfort he could, but it had been no use.
> 
> Jon used the last of his cigarettes and Martin is done with his moping, or maybe Jon is just done with Martin's intent to never go outside?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for such a gap between chapters. I really struggled with this chapter, but re listening to season 4 rejuvenated my hot love of Jon and Martin, and also pointed out some gaps in my memories of the safe house period.  
> So I suppose my little story is a somewhat AU of what if Jon and Martin actually spent a good amount of time living in Scotland before Elias cockblocks their domestic life?
> 
> Anyway, boys have a falling out and a big embarrass in this one, buckle up kids.
> 
> CW for talk of nicotine addiction and self isolating

Now without a use, Jon’s spider web lighter had been discarded beside the empty packet of cigarettes. Jon had tossed them both onto the kitchen table shortly after having smoked the last cigarette, slumping into one of the chairs at the table in a fit of despair. Martin wasn’t sure if Jon had moved for the rest of the day. He had tried to reason with him at first. Provide him what best comfort he could, but it had been no use.

“I hope you acted like this when I disappeared,” Martin mused, testing a comedic approach to his task of cheering his partner up.

“I didn’t have the time to find out,” Jon replied flatly. He had his arms folded on the table top, the side of his head lain on top of them.

“I think throwing a tantrum in front of Peter may have resulted in a drastically different turn out,” Martin continued. Jon lifted his gaze to meet Martin’s.

“I don’t throw tantrums,” he said, his eyebrows scrunching together momentarily before flattening again as Jon’s eyes dropped back to the kitchen floor.

“Oh no, of course, you’re just having a normal adult mood,” Martin sighed, rolling his eyes. From his seat on the kitchen counter, Martin was able to kick his leg out and brush the edge of Jon’s thigh. He did just so after his eighth (or was it his ninth?) attempt to talk, when Jon had ceased responding, instead taking up the action of flicking his lighter open, focusing on the flame for several beats before flicking it closed and repeating.

Jon had tried to go as long as he could without smoking the last cigarette. Martin hadn’t been sure how long the sentiment would last, but he had thought Jon would have been able to last longer than four days. Though, Martin did have to give him credit for passing his three-day record that had been achieved back in the archives when Melanie, with the influence of Georgie, had challenged Jon to go a week without any nicotine. Several rough statements about spiders and one argument with Tim had swiftly shut down the dare. 

Martin nudged his toes into Jon’s leg and then did the same at his waist until the Archivist graced him with eye contact once more. He didn’t say anything, only raising an eyebrow to acknowledge Martin’s touch.

Martin huffed and scrunched his hands into the hem of his jumper. He loved Jon, but he couldn’t deny the disliking he held for Jon’s moods. He should have been used to them by now. Working with the rude, dismissive, disbelieving Jon that had existed before the Prentis attack should have been enough for that. And yet, his heart still sank every time he caught the cold, flat look that painted Jon’s face and pooled in his green eyes.

Martin opened his mouth to try yet another route of comfort but decided against it. If Jon wanted to act like a child and throw a tantrum then Martin felt it was probably best to let him cry it out. He’d talk when he was ready. Martin shook his head and jumped down from the counter. He grabbed his notebook off the table and crossed into the living room.

So, they sat in silent company, Martin settled on the sofa, trying to focus on his poetry and Jon still sprawled across the kitchen table, his face pressed into the cool wood. Every now and then, Martin would lift his eyes to check on Jon. Each time never granted him a new sight. Occasionally Jon would shift, his head rolling one way or another. Sometimes he would sigh heavily and melt further into the table. And once he sat up only momentarily to pull his hair into a messy bun before flopping back into place.

Several hours passed before Jon finally stood. Martin heard the chair squeak backwards and Jon’s soft footsteps as he left the kitchen and turned into the bedroom. Martin hummed under his breath, questioning if he should follow. He was about to stand and do just so when Jon re-emerged from the bedroom. A baggy cardigan had been pulled on, a muffled chink sounding from its pocket as Jon walked.

The Archivist didn’t look at Martin, at least not directly, as he passed behind the sofa. Instead he just padded past and towards the front door. He grabbed his coat from the hook on the back of the door and shoved his arms into it.

“Heading out?” Martin asked, setting his notebook aside and turning in his seat to eye Jon.

“I need to do something or I’m going to go mad, I thought I could try and call Basira, check in on the Institute. I found some change in the bathroom, it’s enough for two calls so I might call Georgie too, though really I just want to see how the Admiral is.”

“And to check the shop for cigarettes and tea,” Martin mumbled under his breath.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing, just talking to myself.” Martin stood, smoothing out the folds in his jumper as he did. He rounded the sofa and leant against the back of it. Jon’s eyebrows were bunched tightly. A clear sign of his frustration. Martin was thankful for Jon’s high level of expressiveness. He knew the Archivist well enough to know how he was feeling more often than not, but the lines that creased his face and the set of his eyebrows cemented Martin’s judgment that Jon was tired and in a mood.

“Be mindful of the icy paths and send them all my love,” Martin said with a forced smile.

Jon replied a short “Will do” whilst shoving his feet into shoes. Martin leant into the arm of the sofa, watching as Jon knelt down to tie his laces tightly, double knotting them just in case. Martin wanted to kiss Jon goodbye, but his anger held him back.

He felt silly for being angry with the man over something so mundane. Running out of cigarettes and moping about it was hardly the worst thing Jon had done during their time together, and yet, Martin just could not shake his resentment over it all.

As Jon stood, Martin could see the look of a thought on the Archivist’s face. “I suppose you aren’t coming with?”

“Jon,” Martin started, his hands instinctively bending up to cradle his own upper body at the thought of the cold outside world. “We’ve been over this, I—”

“Martin, you can’t stay inside forever.” Jon finally met his eye, but his eyebrows were bunched, a frown growing on his lips.

“Why not? We all seemed pretty firm on the idea when we were in the Archives,” Martin scoffed. Jon winced. He tugged at a loose strand of hair at the nape of his neck, worrying the hair between his fingers and pulling until his skin stung.

“That was different, monsters were preying on us,” he tried to reason. Jon also knew that their near full-time life in the archives was closer to imprisonment than it had ever been a decision. Even in Elias' case, he supposed. Elias, no, Jonah Jon reminded himself, was just as much trapped in the Magnus Institute as the rest of them.

“What, and they aren’t here?” Martin said, a bitter laugh behind his words that drew Jon from his thoughts.

“I didn’t say that.”

Martin was quiet. He looked hurt, and ashamed. Jon could see the guilt that burdened Martin’s thoughts and festered in the habits he had quickly adopted after moving into the safe house. Jon knew it wasn’t just the chill weather of the outside that kept Martin boxed in. No, this wasn’t like with the Archives. This was a decision Martin had made. Inside, he couldn’t hurt anyone. There wasn’t anyone to disappoint or anger. Or fear- except Jon, but the Archivist was fairly certain Martin and himself were far beyond the point of ever worrying about long lasting damage of disagreements.

It pained Jon to watch Martin attempt to escape the Forsaken’s grip so hard that he had circled himself right back into it. He was isolating, again, and whilst Jon was there to stop any truly harmful steps into the Lonely, there was only so much one person could do to stop another from feeling utterly alone.

“Martin, Lukas can’t get you anymore. He’s gone and the Forsaken is too weak to try and make any real claims on you,” Jon said, his voice softening. He wanted to embrace Martin. Smooth his hands over his shoulders and down his arms, squeezing reassuringly at the skin just above his elbows, but the look on Martin’s face was thunderous and Jon could feel the anger radiating in the man’s body.

“You’re just saying that.”

“I— I’m not. Martin, you know I wouldn’t lie to you,” Jon said. Martin was silent again. His arms had slowly drifted from his shoulders, settling to cross tightly over his chest. “Martin, please can we just—” 

“No, we ‘can’t just’, drop it Jon,” Martin snapped. He shot Jon a glare before pushing himself away from the sofa and rounding into the kitchen. Jon knew what he was doing. He had done the same thing whilst working under Peter. Martin was shutting down a conversation the only way he knew how. Walking away and saying just enough to nudge hurt into Jon’s feelings.

Jon swore under his breath. He could feel the prickle of the Beholding under his skin and in the flush of his cheeks. Its presence always found a way to creep in when Jon started to lose grip on his emotions.

“You hate me for my bad habits and I’m not allowed to question yours?” Jon watched Martin in the kitchen.

“I never said, I—” Martin trailed off as he registered the low hum in his ears and the faint residual feeling of static behind his eyes. His eyes widened and he stepped back, expanding the space between himself and Jon.

“I told you not to look inside my head!”

“I—I know, Martin, it’s just I-,” Jon reached a hand out, stuttering over his words. “I’m sorry, I just could feel something was off and I needed to know—”

Martin cut him off. “Then speak! Ask me what’s wrong, Jon. Christ, do I not deserve the least bit of privacy?”

“Of course, you do,” Jon reassured, his voice faint. He stumbled to close the space between them, reaching to place his hands over Martin’s. He was shaking, Martin noted. Not as badly as he’d witnessed before, but just enough that Jon’s movement was jerked and unsteady.

Martin let Jon take his hands.

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispered, lacing his long fingers between Martin’s before peppering ghost like kisses along the back of Martin’s hands and along his wrists. Martin made a choked noise that Jon struggled to register. He tightened his grip on the man’s hands and pressed a more forceful kiss over his knuckles. Martin’s fingers flexed in his grip before prying themselves away. Jon looked up just in time to catch the pained look in Martin’s eye.

“Go make your calls, Jon. It’ll be dark soon.”

“Right, yes. I’ll be back in a bit,” Jon said slowly. He retracted his hands and shoved them into his coat pockets. The Archivist left without another word, the front door clicking closed behind him.

“Good going, Martin, you idiot,” Martin scolded himself as the safe house fell silent. He kicked the cupboard in front of him and shouted as pain shot up his leg. He bit the insides of his cheeks to stop himself shouting further, his hands scrunching into the tufts of his hair. He could still feel the static of Jon’s Beholding and at the back of his mind he couldn’t drown out the voice of Peter, praising him for pushing Jon away.

“Shit.”

Martin stared at the front door, the noise of Peter growing stronger yet. He swore again, scrubbing at his scalp as he forced himself towards the door. He shoved is feet into his boots, ignoring the laces as he stumbled out into the cold of the outside. He quickly found Jon’s footsteps in the snow and began trailing them down the hilly pathway that trailed away from their home.

In the distance, Martin could make out the dark silhouette of Jon, kicking at rocks as he began the climb up the next hill.

“Jon!” Martin called, cupping his hands around his mouth in hopes to elevate his voice, but the Archivist didn’t make any move to indicate he had heard. Martin called out several more times, using a mixture of full names and nicknames, anything he had known Jon to respond to.

“Jonathan, wait!”

Martin had to stop to catch his breath. He had gradually picked up speed whilst shouting, and Martin wasn’t the fittest man in the world. He clutched at his chest, soothing the arching stitch he could feel settling in. It was at that moment Martin realised, with some surprise, he had left the house without his coat. He looked back towards the safe house at the top of the hill and then down towards Jon who was starting to crest over the top of the next hill.

Martin mentally mapped out the route to the little village. He had only been there several times, few enough to count on one hand, but, if his mind wasn’t failing him, he was sure the village was just over the other side of Jon’s hill, nestled in the narrow valley there.

He looked back at the house again, debating whether to turn back or continue after his partner. Martin knew staying out much longer without his coat would constitute a death wish. It had to be below zero and his fingers were already starting to turn a bright red in response.

“Jon won’t be long, I’ll wait for him at home,” he said aloud, nodding to himself that he had made the right decision. Jon had never been someone to hold particularly strong grudges. At least not when it came to Martin. He knew that their paused argument would be okay until they were both back in the safety and warmth. He could apologise, make Jon some hot blackcurrant squash, and kiss it all better. However, as Martin turned his path back up the safe house hill, his heart sank into the depths of his belly where he knew deep down, Jon had been right.

Martin had locked himself away, it didn’t matter how intentional or not, and avoiding the snow-covered world outside wasn’t helping anything. He turned back to watch Jon. Without any further thought, he found himself continuing his path down the hill and towards the little village.

By keeping his pace up, Martin managed to tackle both his time and warmth issue. He reached the village within ten minutes, sweat soaked and chest puffing. He leant against a lamppost, catching his breath, and mentally trying to map out where the phone box had been. He was sure it had been next to the post office but the space around the building was visibly lacking in any bright red boxes.

Martin wandered further into the village. As he approached the corner shop, he glimpsed the top of the phone box. He ran to it, mindful of the ice on the road, but found it utterly empty. He stopped in his tracks. Martin glanced down at his watch. He was sure he hadn’t been that far behind Jon. Was Jon truly so bad at communication that he had made both of his calls already?

Martin hugged himself in the cold, rubbing his upper arms for warmth whilst he stared at the phone box, dumbfounded.

“Martin?”

Martin jumped and turned suddenly to find Jon stood behind him, a handful of change in his open palm. His nose was frost bitten and his eyes matched it redness, but Martin knew it wasn’t because of the cold. Despite having been, Martin supposed, one of Jon’s closest friends back in the institute, Martin had never seen Jon show any overwhelmed emotions outside of monster and fear-induced anger and paranoia. But after leaving the Lonely and escaping the Institute without any plans, Jon had crumpled in Martin’s arms and cried. He had cried, and Martin had held him, and they had found comfort in each other that had never had the chance to front before.

Looking at Jon, Martin recognised the familiar stain of tears on Jon’s cheeks and the sad puff of his under-eyes. A million and one sentences of what to say ran through Martin’s mind but instead he settled on pulling Jon into firm hug, pressing his face against the Archivist’s, and whispering a thousand muffled apologies. 

“Martin, what—why are you here?” Jon pressed his hands to Martin’s chest, loosening the hug enough to look up at the taller man.

“I couldn’t let you just walk away after I shut you out, I knew if I did, I’d kick myself for the rest of my life.”

“I was going to come back, Martin,” Jon said, a slight laugh to his voice.

“I know, I know, I just,” Martin paused, smiling softly. He released Jon and took a step back. Martin scratched at the nape of his neck. “I just knew that if I didn’t leave the house and follow you, I was never going to leave.”

Jon nodded in understanding. He fiddled with the change still in his hand before slipping it back into his pocket. Martin followed his hand and glimpsed the edges of the corner shop’s paper bags sticking out of Jon’s left coat pocket.

“Does the shop have deliveries again?”

“What?” Jon questioned before following Martin’s gaze to his pocket. “Oh! No, sadly still nothing, but the shop keeper was selling some books second hand and well, I found one that I thought you might like.”

A blush crept onto Jon’s cheek as he pulled the bag out and removed its contents. He presented a slim book. It was a modest paper back, adorned with a painting of a girl stood beneath a tree, a field under the light of a sunset stretched out before her. Underneath in neat black font was _John Keates, Selected Poems_.

Martin sucked in a breath at the sight before releasing it with a sound of adoration. He took the book from Jon, a bright smile on his face.

“Oh, Jon, you didn’t have to,” he said, winded. He instantly began flicking through the book, eyeing the featured poems. He occasionally nodded or made a soft ‘oh’ sound at the pages, obviously pleased with the selection. Jon smiled privately to himself.

“Accept it as an apology for everything I said, I was out of line, and I shouldn’t have pried on your thoughts,” Jon apologised as Martin closed the book and slipped it back into the bag still clutched in Jon’s hands. Martin quickly shook his head and gripped Jon’s shoulders. He held his gaze and apologised back.

“I don’t suppose the shop had any books I could buy you as an apology gift in return?” Martin trailed his hands up the sides of Jon’s neck and into the edges of his hair. He tugged the hair band keeping Jon’s hair loosely tied back free and combed his fingers through its long length.

“Seeing you outside is enough for me,” Jon said softly. He pressed his scalp into Martin’s fingers and turned his face to press a kiss to the inside of his wrist. “Though I must ask, where is your coat? It’s snowing Martin, you’ll freeze to death.”

“Yes, yes I know, I forgot okay,” Martin said with a whine. He pouted and stopped his combing, letting his hands rest at Jon’s shoulders once more. “Once I’d decided on following you I didn’t have much time to stop and wrap up.”

“So hopelessly in love that you forget basic clothing?” Jon teased Martin, wrapping his arms around his partner’s waist.

“Shut up.” Martin shoved Jon’s shoulders playfully. The Archivist chuckled and leant into Martin. He rested his head against his chest, feeling the soft beat of Martin’s heart.

 _God, I love you_ , he thought, unable to wipe the stupid smile off his face. Martin made him giddy. He was better than any scary story or tale of unfortunate encounters with monsters. Jon nuzzled his face up Martin’s chest and pressed short kisses to the exposed skin of his neck. Martin hummed in response, his hands lifting to encircle Jon’s shoulders.

He dipped his head, nestling into the crook of Jon’s neck. He returned the Archivist’s kisses and whispered into his ear, making Jon’s blush burst deeper across his cheeks.

_“You’ll just have to kiss me warm.”_

Martin pulled Jon closer against him, pressing one hand between his shoulder blades and the other at the base of his spine. He caught Jon’s lips against his, kissing him deeply and with all the love he could muster.

Jon melted into the touch. He reveled in the surprising warmth of Martin’s lips and the cold touch of his hand that had slipped into his coat and under his shirt, running lines up and down his back. Jon leant into the kiss more, using Martin’s grip to elevate himself high enough to lace his hands further into Martin’s hair.

Martin walked Jon backwards until his back pressed up against the side of the phone box. His other hand had joined the other beneath his shirt and together, they had raised goose bumps down Jon’s spine. Words of love and affection spiraled in Jon’s mind, every phrase he could conjure to describe how he felt about Martin.

“I love you,” he mumbled in the breaks between kisses. Martin opened his mouth to reply when a firm cough broke them from their little bubble of passion. Jon slowly turned to see the shop keeper stood behind them, her arms crossed firmly across her chest, an eyebrow raised.

“I know not many people use it anymore, but the phone box isn’t quite as secluded as you both might assume. If you plan on doing this again, might I suggest finding somewhere a bit more private, boys?”

The two men quickly pulled apart, Jon coughing as he straightened out his clothes, pulling down his bunched shirt where Martin had rubbed it halfway up his chest. He could feel the heat of a blush on his cheeks, but beside him, Martin had gone as red as the wool of his jumper.

“I apologise, we uh,” Jon paused, his mind blank of what to say. His history of relationships was sincerely vanilla, and he had never experienced being caught in the act, if that was even the right way to describe what he had been doing with Martin.

The shop keeper raised a hand as if to dismiss Jon’s search for words. “I know how it is when you’re young and in love, but time and place, hm?”

The shop keeper smiled, a kind smile Jon noted, no hint of malice. She bid them a good evening and disappeared back into her shop, a knowing smile still on her face.

“Christ, it’s like I’m reliving secondary school,” Martin sighed, falling back against the phone box. His blush had settled but his cheeks and nose were still rosy with embarrassment.

Jon raised an eyebrow at the statement. “Did you spend a lot of time kissing boys against phone boxes and getting caught by elderly shop keeps?”

“Maybe. If by phone box you mean the back of the art block and the shop keeper a highly unimpressed head teacher.”

“How very scandalous of you,” Jon mused, resting against a nearby wall. Martin giggled then shivered as the chill of the world caught up to him.

“Here take this.” Jon shrugged his coat off and draped it around Martin’s shoulders, tugging the hood around his ears and face. 

“What about you?” Martin tilted his head in question as he pulled the coat on properly. It was a touch too small for him, constrictive around the arms where the elbow pad decoration of his jumper bulked up the narrow space of Jon’s coat. He didn’t mind, though, because it felt so _right_.

“Oh, I’ll be okay. I’ve survived much worse,” Jon assured. He cupped his hand against Martin’s cheek. “Besides, freezing would be worth it for you.”

“Don’t be cheesy.” Martin slapped his hand away.


	4. Four Apologies and Uncountable Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite having meant it as a joke, Jon had followed through with Martin’s request of warming him up with kisses. On their walk back from the little village, the pair had continued to tease each other, Martin intermittently asking if Jon really was okay without his coat, and every time Jon had responded that he was fine and that besides, they were nearly home anyways. 
> 
> ***
> 
> Jon and Martin share many kisses and comforting hugs whilst they discuss bad habits and make plans to make their new relationship easier for each other, with bonus Archivist powers Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a hot second since I updated this. I've had parts of this chapter sat in my notes for a good few months but I finally felt inspired by the upcoming finale of Magnus and returned to bring some hopeless gays who almost definitely have separation anxiety.
> 
> CW for talk of bad habits, Jon on his smoking problems again, Martin being an (relatably) anxious man, and some mentions of canon typical gore and horror.

Despite having meant it as a joke, Jon had followed through with Martin’s request of warming him up with kisses. On their walk back from the little village, the pair had continued to tease each other, Martin intermittently asking if Jon really was okay without his coat, and every time Jon had responded that he was fine and that besides, they were nearly home anyways. 

And once they had stepped through the front door, snow-damp boots removed and set to dry beneath the radiator, Jon had caught Martin’s lips against his again, reconvening their earlier moment of affection. Jon didn’t plan for any interruptions this time. Revelling in the blissful privacy that the safe house provided, Jon didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms tightly around his partner and deepen their kiss until their lips felt like they had melted together. Only warmth, and love, and familiar comforts.

Martin hummed as Jon’s hands stroked through his hair, fingers tangling amongst soft brown curls, his eyes fluttering closed. The archivist grazed his thumb over the shell of Martin’s ear, drawing out a muffled moan. The noise made Jon’s heart swell, and he repeated the action, teasing a string of affectionate sounds from Martin’s throat.  
In that moment, Jon could nearly forget about their earlier argument. He may have bought Martin’s forgiveness with the incentive of Keats and a heated kiss but they hadn’t resolved anything and Jon could feel it looming over them. He could sense that Martin felt it too.

As if catching each other’s thoughts, both men broke away from the kiss, hands retracting from where they rested on the other’s body. Martin’s eyes slowly fluttered open. The movement seemed to drag, as if Martin were stalling to keep them from the very much needed conversation. His grey eyes found Jon’s face; unease clear in them. Martin gave Jon a saddened look.

“We need to talk about what happened earlier,” Jon said, taking on the role of opening the discussion.

“Jon,” Martin said gently, a twinge of annoyance in his voice.

“Martin, if we don’t it’s just going to loom over us like…” Pausing to sigh, Jon took Martin’s hands in his smaller ones, smoothing their palms over one another. “Well, like most other things in our life.”

Martin tilted his head, grey eyes watching their hands as fingers laced together. A small grin tugged at his lips as a little laugh escaped, and whilst initially Jon’s eyebrows furrowed in surprised confusion, it didn’t take long for his own laughter to join and the pair quickly fell against each other, arms wrapped around waists that tugged them both into a warm embrace.

As the laughter lessened, Jon looked up at his partner, chin jutting into Martin’s chest.

“Please,” Jon said softly. Nuzzling his forehead against the crook of Martin’s neck. He felt Martin release a deep breath before nodding slowly and planting a gentle kiss of the top of his head.

“Alright, so long as you promise not to get all defensive over your flaws,” he said as he pulled away just enough to look at Jon’s face. His arms stayed looped around Jon’s waist, one hand rubbing soothing circles into the small of his back. 

“I’d hardly call them-” Jon began to protest before he was cut off by Martin’s hands raising to rest on either cheek, squishing Jon’s face slightly before planting a quick kiss on his lips that rendered any remaining dispute null.

“Okay, yes, point taken,” Jon said, batting Martin’s hands away. A smug grin lined Martin’s lips and Jon couldn’t help but smile back at him. A nearly villainous shine sparkled in Martin’s eyes as he looked down at Jon, silent ‘I know what you’re like’s and ‘I told you so’s practically emanating from him.  
Jon loved him so much and wished nothing more in that moment then to kiss his boyfriend until that grin turned into the prettiest smile his weary eyes had ever seen. And it would be just for him and the shadows that lingered in this old cabin.

So much had happened to the pair in the arguably short time they had spent in the archives. Jon was close to loosing count on how many times they had been threatened by another entity. Another avatar. He didn’t want to count how many times those threats had led to more empty desks, vacant of past friends and lost loves.

God willing it, Jon wanted to stay here forever with Martin. Protected in the safe embrace of four brick walls and rural landscapes. It was quiet for once, a good quiet, and Jon could hold Martin and be held in return and not worry about prying eyes or malicious smiles with too many teeth and too many threats.

Don’t get distracted, Jon reminded himself. He pulled away from Martin again, groaning slightly as the other man’s warm hands left his.  
“I want to apologise for the way I was acting this morning, it was out of line and unfair on you. You were just trying to cheer me up and I should have been more appreciative,” Jon began, worrying the edge of his jumper.

“Thank you,” Martin replied in a soft tone. He reached for Jon’s hands again, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “And I want to apologise for snapping at you when you were trying to help me too.”

Jon nodded and hummed his own near silent thank you. “For what it’s worth, I’m also sorry again for trying to look inside your head,” he said, speaking up. “Seems I have more bad habits that need breaking then I thought.”

Martin hummed in agreement, before he smiled a little sadly and pulling Jon back against him. He pressed a firm kiss to the crown of Jon’s head before nuzzling a cheek against his scalp and sighing. “I think we both do.”

A silence stretched out around them, only the sound of their breathing filling the small front room of the cabin. Clutched to Martin’s chest so tightly, Jon couldn’t help but wonder what list of bad habits Martin was compiling in his head. What unfavourable customs he was naming for Jon and for himself. Jon wondered if they were thinking about the same ones. He caught himself slipping towards the urge to target his focus on Martin and take a peek into his mind, and quickly scolded himself, walking a few paces away from Martin.  
“Is everything okay?” Martin asked, tilting his head. His arms still lingered in the space where Jon had been barely a moment before. Slowly, they dropped to his side with a sad swing.

“Yes, sorry, I just… my legs were cramping.” Jon winced slightly at the lie but if Martin had noticed he didn’t say anything, and his expression had remained gentle and so full of care.

“You should have said, are you tired?”

“A little I suppose.” Jon shrugged. He supposed in some ways he did feel tired, but it was a bone deep exhaustion that hadn’t left him ever since Oliver Banks had brought him back from the divide between life and death. He had come to accept that no amount of sleep, or alternatively caffeine, would be enough to chase it from his body.

Martin nodded and smiled again. He didn’t reach for Jon this time, but he did lean forward to stroke a hand over Jon’s cheek, patting it lightly before he walked towards the kitchen.

“Why don’t you go lie down and I’ll make us some tea.”

“Peppermint again?”

“I’m trying not to think about it,” Martin groaned as he vanished behind the wall that divided the kitchen into its own little space.

Jon stifled a laugh and rounded the sofa they had been resting against just before. He sat down on the edge of it with a heavy sigh, dragging a shaky hand through his long salt and pepper hair. He could hear Martin shuffling around the kitchen from behind him and Jon closed his eyes focusing on the sound. The earlier list of habits flicked back into his mind’s eye. Many of the more distasteful ones were what Jon had come to term ‘Avatar Instigated’, and Jon quickly struck them from his list.

Despite being onboard with changing those aspects of himself, Jon knew there was only so much he could do. And such, there was no point dwelling on them in that moment. Instead, Jon turned his attention to the remaining ones. After a few moments he called out.

“Martin?”

There was a pause, a couple of muffled clinks from the kitchen before he heard Martin reply. “Did you call?”

Jon didn’t reply straight away, his eyes still closed and back to the kitchen. He heard an uneasy shuffle on the floor behind him and Jon opened his eyes, to find Martin staring down at him, his brow furrowed.

“Jon?”

“I want to quit smoking.” Jon’s voice was monotone, full of seriousness.

“Okay,” Martin started to reply. “Does your current lack of cigarettes have anything to do with that?”

“It’s certainly aiding it to some degree,” Jon said. He shuffled in his seat, turning to face Martin, legs pressed to the sofa cushions. “But Martin, I’m being serious. I know I have a lot of bad habits I’ve accumulated since becoming archivist and not all of them are as easy to just quit. But this is one of my most human issues and whilst I know it won’t be entirely easy, I want to try… again. For you.”

Martin looked a touch taken back by the explanation. “Oh,” he said softly. “Well, I’m proud of you for deciding that, and I’ll try my best to support you however I can.”

“Thank you, I’ll apologise in advance if I’m ever a little short with you. If today is anything to go by, I reckon I will be,” Jon said with a frown, leaning forward to press his forehead to the centre of Martin’s chest. Strong arms circled around Jon’s torso, hugging him loosely as Martin began to sway them gently side to side.

“You are forgiven,” he said, continuing to lull out any of Jon’s lingering anxiety with each sway. “And Jon?”

“Yes?”

“Can I also ask you to tell me when you’re struggling with something?”

Jon pulled back from Martin at that, giving him a look that made Martin begin to stumble over his words.

“I-it’s just that, I can tell when something is wrong, but you’re always so hesitant to open up. I’m not asking you to tell me everything, we both deserve privacy and secrets, but just, sometimes I think things would be smoother if you told me when something was bothering you or what schemes are going through that pretty head of yours,” Martin continued.

“I don’t scheme, Martin,” Jon said with a frown that he tried desperately to keep serious, but he couldn’t help but let the smile growing behind it crack through.

“Not true, but either way, my point still remains. I’d appreciate a little help reading you sometimes, and in return I promise to be more open with you too.” Martin gave Jon an honest smile, one so full of faith and trust. 

“I wish I could promise you everything you ask, but I know myself. So, instead I will promise you my best efforts,” Jon reasoned, knowing it best to be more realistic with what he could agree to. As much as I wanted to tell the white lie that he would tell Martin everything and give him the world and more, Jon knew that it would just make things harder when he evidently slipped up and withheld something from his partner.

“That’s okay, habits take time to break. And maybe whilst we wait, we can find new habits together,” Martin said. “Better habits.”

“Alright, but right now, I rather think I would just like to cuddle with my boyfriend.”

Martin giggled and leant in to place a lingering kiss on Jon’s lips, who leant into the caress and whined slightly when Martin drew away again. Martin only laughed louder, snorting at the pouted expression on Jon’s face.

“Let me just get our teas and then you can cuddle me for the rest of the day and all night if you so wish.”

Jon let Martin go, watching him retreat back into the kitchen space. He lowered himself down from his kneeling position and settled himself lengthways across the sofa. When Martin appeared at the end, two steaming mugs in hand, Jon happily lifted his legs to let the man squeeze in beside him. Martin gave a soft pat to Jon’s calves as his legs settled in his lap.

“Careful, it’s hot,” Martin said as he passed Jon one of the mugs. Those three words never failed to make Jon smile. It was a mundane enough statement, simply a polite cautionary. Jon wasn’t even sure Martin was aware he had been saying it without fail every time he had brought him a cup of tea. It was one of the first things Martin had said to him, and it had warmed Jon knowing he still had the luck to hear it, even now. Even after everything they had gone through. It was a good habit. One Jon wouldn’t trade for anything, not even his freedom from the Eye and whatever entities had their teeth in him.

He smiled at Martin over the rim of his mug, taking in the sight of Martin’s wrinkled nose as he sniffed at the unfavourable tea in his hands. Jon nudged a toe at Martin’s arm.

“I love you,” Jon said, as soon as Martin looked at him. For several seconds Martin simply stared at him, mug frozen halfway to his lips, and Jon watched as what he had said sunk into his partner’s mind. Martin’s eyes widened and a deep flush spread rapidly across his freckled skin.

“I love you,” Martin returned, his voice barely a whisper, all air knocked out of his lungs. Jon beamed at him, so inexplicably in love with this man. His man. His Martin Blackwood.  
Balancing his mug on the arm of the chair, Jon crawled to close the space between Martin and him, and as soon as he was close enough, he pulled them into a bruising kiss. Martin made a soft sound between breaths. One arm circled around the Archivist’s body, rolling him so his back pressed into Martin’s lap. Martin was still holding his own mug, and Jon could feel his steady concentration as he desperately tried to not spill any of the contents.

“We can pause so you can put your mug down, Martin,” Jon murmured, hands cupping Martin’s face. Martin only shook his head in response.

“Alright then,” Jon said before kissing Martin again. The archivist had no doubt that Martin would end up spilling the tea, but if Martin had said he was fine, Jon wasn’t going to argue with him. That was until Jon surprised Martin with a quick nip of teeth to his lower lip, and the man dropped the mug. It hit the floor in a second, shattering across the floor beneath them.

Jon yelped as some of the tea splashed onto the skin of his back, exposed where Martin’s hands had rucked up his jumper and shirt. He turned in Martin’s hold, glancing to the messy floor.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry, Jon, let me clean this up,” Martin began stuttering out apologies, trying to lift Jon off him.

“Hey, hey it’s alright,” Jon reassured, pressing a hand to Martin’s chest, and stilling him. “It was an accident, don’t worry.”

Soundlessly, Jon slipped from his position on Martin’s lap and knelt on the ground beside the now shattered mug. He was grateful that Daisy had never felt the need to furnish her cabin with carpets as it made it easier for him to tactfully avoid puddles of tea and sand-like shards of porcelain. He began to carefully gather the larger shards, stacking them inside a bowl that had been left out on the coffee table, but he paused when he felt a hand lace into his hair, combing through it in a slow, rhythmic motion. His green eyes looked up at Martin, an affectionate smile on his lips.

“Thank you, Jon,” Martin murmured as he leant forward to plant a kiss on the Archivist’s forehead. Jon leant up into the caress, laughing softly.

“You’re very welcome, beautiful,” he replied, catching a quick peck from Martin’s lips before the man pulled too far away. Martin’s blush seemed to the deepen and he looked away momentarily. 

“I’ll get some paper towels,” Martin said, his embarrassment quickly propelling him out of the room. Jon watched him leave, an endearing smile curling on his lips. Turning back to the mug, Jon finished clearing what he could safely manage with his hands alone. Though staring at the remaining smaller flecks of porcelain and chipped coloured glaze, a thought crossed Jon’s mind.

Jon was aware that these little shards couldn’t harm him, not anymore. Not in the same way they would Martin. Jon wasn’t human anymore, at least… not completely human. If he couldn’t cut one of his fingers off, then what harm did a shattered mug pose? He had no doubt it may slice the surface of his skin, give him a paper cut at best, but there’d be no lingering harm. He’d most likely heal before he even got the chance to properly react. Jon knew all this and yet he had paused out of habit. An ingrained, human habit that made him weary of sharp things.

The archivist had been so wrapped up in the thought that he hadn’t noticed Martin’s return or his flustered mopping of the floor. It was only when Martin nudged his leg to usher Jon over slightly to clean the reaming moisture, that Jon snapped back to reality. He blinked at Martin, earning him a quizzical expression in return.

“You okay?” Martin asked softly, sitting back on his heels.

“Am I human Martin?” Jon asked, completely ignoring Martin’s question.

Martin’s face seemed to scrunch in concern, taken by surprise, as he slowly replied, “I think so?”

“You think so?”

“I don’t know,” Martin said honestly, his hands waving in the air. “I mean, what does human even mean anymore? You’re still you, and I guess on a genetic level you’re probably still human, I guess, maybe.”

Martin seemed to pause before his brows furrowed and his voice raised a pitch in question. “Can the entities change your genes when they make you an avatar?”

“I-,” Jon started before sitting back on his heels himself, face turning as his brain felt like it stalled. Jon had never thought about that before, Martin’s question sending a worried jolt through him. He shuffled where he sat, hands gripping his trouser legs as he tried to reach for the answer. Loud static filled his ears, his vision clouding over and quickly falling off into darkness as his third eye opened.

He felt the now familiar pull in his head as his mind reached out fingers, grabbing and clutching onto threads of knowledge. Jon reached to get a better grip on them, pulling them closer to his consciousness, each tug intensifying a sharp pain that had settled in the base of his skull.

Jon let out a dull cry and vaguely registered distressed words in Martin’s voice, though Jon had no idea what he was saying. He kept pulling but his hands only slipped on the answer. He felt weaker than he had in the past, his powers no longer strong enough to stop the thread dragging back out of his grip and into the depths of whatever unknown the Eye lingered in.

Jon’s body jolted as his mind snapped back to his human reality, the static vanishing from his senses like a slap. Jon took a shaky breath, his white-knuckled grip on his trousers lessening.

“Jesus, Jon, are you okay? What happened?” Martin’s hands were on him, touch hesitant and so full of unease. He cupped a hand to Jon’s face, lifting his chin to look into his murky green eyes.

“Sorry, I should have given you some kind of warning,” 

“I’ll say, you just suddenly clocked out of reality and those little flowing eyes popped up all around you, on you even. I thought you’d gone catatonic. I thought Elias had…” Martin trailed off, eyes shimmering with the threat of tears. He took a deep breath and pressed his forehead to Jon’s. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Martin, I promise. I was trying to get an answer for you, about the genetic thing, but I couldn’t grab it.”

“The Eye didn’t let you?”

“No, I don’t think it was that. I think I’m just too weak right now, too… hungry.”

“Oh well I can make you some food if you think that will help, we didn’t have much of a breakfast this morning so makes sense that you’re-” Martin began to stand as he talked but Jon cut him off with a deep sigh and a small hand curled around his wrist.

“Statement hungry, Martin.” Jon’s lips curled into a distasteful frown. He hated how much withdrawal from statement affected him. He hated how much the Eye seemed to punish him for not feeding it with the fears of the innocent and monstrous.

Martin let out a soft “Oh.” Before nodding and sitting down on the edge of the sofa. Craning his neck down, Martin pressed a lingering kiss to Jon’s forehead, right in the spot where the biggest eye always manifested whenever Jon used his powers.

“I’m sorry if I worried you,” Jon said, leaning into the caress.

“You did, but I can’t exactly say I’m not used to this sort of stuff,” Martin considered, his voice now lighter with a touch of bemusement behind it.

Jon hummed before apologising again and apologising a few more times as knelt up to press his own kisses to Martin’s face. He left the softest kisses for each of Martin’s eyes, drinking in the sight of his partner’s dark lashes fanned out across his rosy cheeks.

Jon slowly lowered himself back to the ground, shuffling into the space between Martin’s legs. He crossed his arms over Martin’s lap, resting his head on his forearms. He stared up at Martin for what felt like minutes, watching his freckled cheeks flush as he stared down at Jon. The archivist lifted a hand, splaying his fingers over Martin’s heart and soaking the warmth of his chest into the scarred skin of his palm. Martin made a soft, affectionate sound in response to the action, and ran his own hand down one side of Jon’s head to cup his cheek. 

Wanting to see if he could push the man’s blush deeper, Jon teased his other hand along the inside of Martin’s thigh. A shiver ran through Martin’s body and Jon chased it up his stomach and across his chest until both of his hands met. Martin’s eyes shifted back to Jon at the sensation. Dilated pupils swallowing any hint of grey. Jon practically choked at the sight. He was beautiful.

“Is this okay?” Jon asked, as Martin’s expression seemed to shift slightly. It wasn’t much, and for a moment Jon questioned if he had imagined it, but when Martin nodded and then smiled, Jon decided it didn’t matter. It was always good to double check consent just because. Jon never wanted Martin to feel uncomfortable or unsafe with him. Not anymore.

“Sorry, I was just thinking,” Martin said softly, his thumb stroking apologetically at Jon’s cheek again.

“Oh? What about?”

“It seems a bit embarrassing now, but I was just thinking about how much I used to day dream about this back in the archives,” Martin explained, his smile wavering into an embarrassed grin. He stuttered when he caught the look in Jon’s eye and the smirk on his lips.

“Don’t look at me like that. You- you probably had these thoughts too!”

“Maybe I did,” Jon mused, shrugging lightly, “Doesn’t change the fact that this look is incredibly endearing on you.”

“Shut- shut up.”

“Hm, no I don’t think I will,” Jon teased as he continued to stroke a hand along Martin’s chest, cupping the light swell of his ribs before smoothing his hand over his collar bone and shoulder. “There are simply too many beautiful things about you. For one, just how smooth your skin is, even with the odd worm scar or two, and this blush is a wonderful shade on you. It brings out those absolutely adorable freckles of yours. If only there were enough hours in the day for me to kiss every single one of them.”

As Jon listed off merely a handful of the things he loved about Martin, he began kissing some of the freckles on the man’s inner wrist. The archivist took time to ensure each one in the cluster had been appropriately pecked before moving onto the next. He continued to speak between each kiss, however, before he could get too far into his list, Martin had caught at his chin and pulled Jon into a firm kiss, shutting him up.

“You can be so infuriating, sometimes,” Martin said when the kiss broke, his face hot with embarrassment. The two men rested their foreheads against one another as they laughed.

“I know, but I also know you love the praise,” Jon replied in a private tone. He nuzzled his nose against Martin’s, savouring the softness of the moment. He felt Martin’s eyes close, his dark eyelashes brushing against Jon’s.

“I hope you didn’t reach into my head to find that out,” Martin asked in a voice not far off a whisper.

Jon laughed again at that, keeping the edge of his voice soft enough to match Martin’s. “I didn’t need to, that look on your face is evidence enough.”

Nuzzling their noses one more time, Martin drew back, eyes locking with Jon’s. “I wish I had had the confidence to tell you how I felt when things were more...” Martin fumbled to find the right word.

“Normal?” Jon offered.

“Yeah, I guess,” Martin continued, scratching at the nape of his neck. He seemed lost in thought again before he returned his hand to thumbing gentle strokes across Jon’s cheek. “I guess normal wasn’t really something we ever did in the archives.”

It was a sad thought, but Jon knew Martin was correct. If anything, normal for them had been the seemingly never-ending horrors that came to them through written statement first and later welcomed themselves into the archives for a helping of eldritch chaos and human suffering.

“Would you have said yes?”

It took Jon several seconds to realise Martin had spoken, and he had to pry himself away from his mental reverie. He tilted his head at the question and hummed, “To what?”

“If I had asked you out,” Martin explained. “Would you have said yes.”

Jon’s lips curled into an O shape, his eyebrows scrunching in thought. “I’m not really sure, honestly. I wish I could say yes but, hmm,” Jon paused to scratch the back of his neck, a touch embarrassed. “I think we can both agree I was a bit of an arse back then.”

“A bit?” Martin pushed, lips curling into a playfully knowing grin. Jon looked up at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Okay, I was a massive arse.”

“You’re the one who said it.”

“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had said it,” Jon confirmed in a reassuring tone. The couple fell quiet again, Martin’s fingers still stroking Jon’s face and combing through his tangled hair. Still sat on the floor between Martin’s legs, Jon shuffled to cross his legs, wincing as the sting of pins and needles settled in the soles of his feet. If he hadn’t felt so deeply relaxed with his head rested in Martin’s lap, Jon may have pushed his way back onto the sofa where it would, without any doubt, be considerably more comfortable. 

Martin looked so happy, though, gaze down turned towards Jon’s face and soft smile on his lips. Jon wished they had gotten a chance to experience such endearments before everything had gotten slowly, increasingly worse. In a way Martin was also right in accusing Jon for sharing similar dreamy fantasies, though Jon wouldn’t admit that. When he had returned from his coma and found Martin so distant and obscured by the suffocating mists of the lonely, Jon had spent many restless hours at his desk, staring into space and imagining the warming presence of his assistant. Hot cups of tea alongside nervously put together follow up reports or misfiled statements. And then the few times Jon had let his mind slip deeper and he’d pictured kiss-bruised lips and muffled sighs in the afternoon light that filtered through the only window in the archives.

“I suppose in a perfect world I might have agreed eventually, I always thought you were handsome, and I was definitely fonder of you then Sasha or Tim despite having known and worked with them for longer,” Jon said eventually. Martin’s cathartic pets had coaxed Jon’s eyes closed at some point, but he knew Martin was looking down at him, a flushed look of surprise on his face.

“You were?”

Jon laughed, “Yes. I think half of the reason I was always so hard on you was because I was in denial over the fact that I had a crush on you.”

When Martin didn’t reply, Jon opened his eyes to find Martin staring down at him, wide eyed and mouth agape. He looked like Jon had just told him he was the second coming of Christ. Jon lifted his head, eyebrows curling with slight concern. He opened his mouth to ask if Martin was okay but stopped when Martin put a finger to his lips, willing him not to comment.

“I thought you hated me,” Martin laughed in amazement, head shaking slightly making the curls in his hair bounce.

“I hadn’t really fancied anyone since dating Georgie at university, and suddenly finding myself with a crush on someone who I was a superior too, well...” Jon waved a hand in the air as if to say, ‘well you know the rest’.

“I don’t think I really realised just how much I liked you until you started working with Lukas. Suddenly you were just gone, and I missed you so much. I was miserable without you there.”

Martin was quiet as Jon talked, hands softly stroking Jon’s hands and forearms. He smiled when Jon was finished, leaning forward, and speaking in a private tone, “If it makes you feel any better, I was miserable without you there too.”

The Archivist nodded slowly, hands holding onto Martin’s firmly. Jon never wanted to be apart from Martin again. He was one of the only remaining constants in his life and he had a feeling that besides being a pretty face, having Martin stuck to his hip, hands laced, and eyes full of love, would be a saving grace for whatever nightmares Elias and the Eye had in the works.

Sighing a little lighter, Jon rested his head back in Martin’s lap. “When did you know you liked me?”

Blush returning, Martin scratched at the back of his neck as he desperately tried to avoid Jon’s gaze. “I already had a small crush on you before I even moved to the archives. I didn’t know your name back then, just your face. My heart close to died when you told me you were the new head archivist, and my new boss, and already looking like you wanted me fired.” Martin rolled his bottom lip through his teeth, biting at the skin anxiously, the memory of the day clearly still haunting him.

“Yes, letting a dog loose in my department will typically earn you that look,” Jon teased before shuffling where he sat and looking up at Martin. “I wasn’t aware we had met when I was still in research.”

“Oh well it was only a handful of times, when you’d come into the library for books you had requested, and I wouldn’t really say we had actually ‘met’ exactly. I had always been too intimidated to actually talk to you, so I always made myself scarce whenever I saw you coming. Stern face and neat clothes.” Martin giggled and Jon couldn’t help but laugh too, picturing his younger self. He knew that researcher Jonathan Sims would have been horrified to see the sorry state he had fallen into all these years later. Unkempt hair, and matted beard, sprawled out on the floor in sweatpants and a ‘what the ghost’ t-shirt that despite being two sizes too big for him, was also stained with splatters of what Jon could only assume was probably blood.

“We have one thing to thank the Archives for then,” Jon mused. “It forced you into having to talk to me and forced me to actually realise just how pretty some of the staff are, though no one is as pretty as you, of course.” Jon raised a hand to ruffle Martin’s gorgeous brown curls, grinning at the smile it earned him.

“Maybe, but in my opinion, there is one person prettier than me.”

“And who would that be?”

“Oh, just some guy from the archives, he’s got a bit of an old-fashioned wardrobe, but he’s got the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen, only issue is, he’s a bit of an arse.”

Jon barked out a laugh and leant up to press a kiss firmly to Martin’s lips.


End file.
